Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #7

In a courtyard full of sun—
a fistful of shade—
what chance has it?
Perhaps, perhaps not!
Let the inner ache tighten,
while laughter dances on the lips;
in the thickets of confusion—
light’s deer are caught;
in the press of cities—
what standing has a tiny village?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

Vows that crumble still clutch a hand,
the shore has borne the blows;
dreams of future bliss—
drift away with the waves;
in a storming tide—
what chance has a paper boat?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

Secrets heavy with mystery open—
when joy and sorrow mingle;
the mad eye is washed clean—
by the melting dew of tears;
on a timeless road—
what chance have time-born feet?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

In the effort to make the impossible possible, man remains deprived even of what could be. Man desires what cannot be fulfilled—what is not in accord with the very law of his nature. He would cross the ocean in a paper boat. He would obtain the Eternal in the perishable. He seeks nectar in dust. And he searches outside what abides within. So long as he seeks without, he will miss. So long as he trusts clay, he will remain deprived of nectar.

The beginning of religious life is precisely this—recognize the impossible as impossible and the possible as possible. When you know exactly what can be and what cannot be, transformation begins; direction changes, dimension changes. Then you no longer try to squeeze oil from sand. You know there is no oil in sand. But ordinarily the state is upside down. All are busy squeezing oil from sand; so you too begin—mere imitation. You live by copying, not by thought, not by discernment. You never really open your eyes. Whatever the crowd is doing, like sheep, you keep doing. The crowd reaches nowhere, and neither do you.

Two journeys are possible. One is the outward journey—futile. Its destination has never been reached, nor will it ever be. The other is the inward journey—fulfilled in the very first step. The outer is unfulfilled even at the last step; the inner is fulfilled even at the first. What is the secret? Small—just a small point. But if understood, there is revolution in life. The inward journey is fulfilled at the very first step because that which you seek is already present there. There is really no seeking to do, nothing to attain—it is already attained; only a curtain is to be lifted. How long can it take to lift a veil! Dust and grime have gathered—wipe them away, wash them away—and the mirror is pure. And when the inner mirror is pure, the truth of life begins to reflect in it. Call that truth of life Paramatma, call it Nirvana, Kaivalya, Moksha—as you will.

All words are small; none can reveal it. Yet every word may become a pointer. All these qualities are there. There is supreme freedom, therefore you may call it Moksha—utter release, all bondage fallen away. There remains no other, no duality—therefore you may call it Kaivalya: only consciousness remains, pure awareness remains, an ocean of Chaitanya remains. No stranger, no different, no other—everything becomes non-different. If you wish, call it Ishwar; for knowing it, a rain of divine opulence descends upon your life. Ishwar comes from aishwarya—so many pearls shower from all ten directions, as the mystic says. Pearls upon pearls—how will you gather them, how will you hold them, in which treasuries will you keep them? The whole world becomes gold.

If you wish, call it Nirvana, as Buddha did.

Nirvana means: the lamp is blown out. Buddha called the ultimate state Nirvana because your ego is snuffed out as if someone blew upon a flame. Try as you may, the light of a lamp once blown out cannot be found again. Your ego is extinguished like the flame of a lamp. All the processes of meditation are methods of blowing. The breath is blown—and the magic happens. Here the ego’s lamp is out, here you are a nothing, erased—and there Paramatma descends. Only when you are gone can the Divine enter.

Therefore within, the goal comes with the first step. And outside, you may journey for countless births and the goal will not arrive.

Outside you are trying to make the impossible possible. The laws will not change for you; nature will not change, swabhava will not change. Swabhava makes no exceptions for anyone.

In a storming tide—
what chance has a paper boat?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

On a timeless road—
what chance have time-born feet?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

In a courtyard full of sun—
a fistful of shade—
what chance has it?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

What is our strength? A fistful. And it is not only a courtyard full of sun—the sky is flooded with sun. A fistful of shade—perhaps, perhaps not.

And all the boats we have made are of paper. Our wealth is paper, our status is paper, our prestige is paper. Will you go on collecting these paper certificates? Will you keep patching them into a boat? The shore will not even be left behind—and you will drown at the very shore. You won’t reach midstream. Had you drowned midstream, it would still be something—at least the midstream had been reached, at least you swam a little! But in a paper boat you won’t move a step from the shore before you sink. Yet all your boats are paper. What others say about you—these are paper things! Some call you good, some bad; some honor you, some insult you. Let them! Neither do you become good by their praise, nor bad by their blame. Neither is your honor established by their reverence, nor is your dishonor by their scorn. You are you—as you are. What the world says makes no difference.

And those who speak—how awake are they? What value can there be in their words! Sleepwalkers honor and dishonor—they mutter in sleep—and you are giving great value to their sleep-mutterings! Muttering in sleep, you concluded they made you a Bharat Ratna. They were muttering in sleep. They know not what they say, nor why they say it—nor do you; you too are asleep. They mutter in sleep, you listen in sleep.

Nobel Prizes are distributed. Awards, honors. All paper boats. Much racket arises. A play of four days. Four days of moonlight and then a deep dark night. Death comes and swallows all. The grave comes and erases everything; even footprints do not remain.

Where all is being erased, what meaning have your doings? If anything is worth doing, it is only this: recognize the law of swabhava; ally yourself with it; move, dance, sing with swabhava. To fall into oneness with swabhava is called sannyas. To flow in accord with swabhava is sannyas. He who moves against swabhava is worldly; he who moves with swabhava is a sannyasi. The worldly man tries to swim upstream. The river moves toward the ocean; he strives to reach the mountain by swimming against it. The sannyasi sees where the river is going; he does not collide with it, he lets go—limp, relaxed. This letting oneself be carried by the river’s current with a simple heart is shraddha—satsang. And once you let go, even a boat is not needed. The river itself carries you.

Have you noticed a strange fact? A living man drowns; a dead man begins to float. No river can drown a corpse. Even if you try to drown him, he keeps bobbing up to the surface. The dead are amazing! The living drown. Even if he knows how to swim, the living man can barely manage to survive! And this ocean is vast—how long will you swim? You will be exhausted.

On a timeless road—
what chance have time-born feet?
Perhaps, perhaps not!

But no river can drown a corpse, no ocean can. What is the secret of the dead? Only this: there is no one there; hence he cannot go against swabhava. He flows only in accord with it—there is no other way. If he were, he would thrash and flail; but he is not. In every way he is reconciled with the river. Therefore the river itself lifts him.

He who surrenders into swabhava is lifted by swabhava itself. He who leaves himself at the feet of Paramatma—no ocean can drown him. Even if he goes under, he will rise again. Midstream itself the shore will be found. There is no way to drown him.

Hence the most ancient definition of sannyas is: live as though you are not, as though you are already dead. To live as a corpse—that is the definition of sannyas. Life remains as a play. Fine—what must be done is done; yet there is no attachment, no clinging. If it happens—good; if not—good. Success and failure begin to feel the same; fame and infamy differ not a hair’s breadth; people’s curses and people’s songs are experienced as one. Then in this world there is no sorrow for you, no pain. Then this world is gone. Then all around you sense only Paramatma in movement.

Only one thing is worth doing: a betrothal with swabhava. Call it what you will. Devotees have called it nama-smaran, prayer, puja, archana, upasana. But people have corrupted it all. They have made puja worth two coppers; archana a formality; prayer a hypocrisy. Under the names of worship and prayer, they do something else entirely. For puja and prayer, there is no need to go to temple, mosque, church, or gurdwara. For puja and prayer one must go within oneself.

May my very movement today become your Arati!
Let the Arati wheel round till the rim of the reddened horizon
draws near and near;
let all this darkness, burnt like smoke,
scatter and fly away.
Let the flame be steady—
the unwavering, unswerving line of a life-vow;
let the heart’s fire—smiling—
be written as a script of light.
May my breath itself become the language of reverence!
May my very movement today become your Arati!

Let that laughter become the temple,
my moments of smile the door;
whether you meet me or I meet you—
let that meeting be my garland of worship.
Today let even my bonds
become my right to freedom;
why not descend into me and abide—
O my own inner Sound!
May the flute of my prana become vowed to love alone, forever!
May my very movement today become your Arati!

Your rising and sitting, your speaking, walking, sleeping—your very movement should become Arati. The style of your life itself must become prayerful. Prayer should not be some separate thing: that you get up in the morning and do it for half an hour and be done—trouble finished—and then for twenty-three hours you forget. What you made in one hour, you wiped clean in twenty-three. Naturally, those twenty-three hours will prevail; the one hour cannot. You build for one hour and for twenty-three you demolish—will a house ever be built?

Let prayer be absorbed into your every breath. Rise in prayer; sit in prayer. Speak in prayer; be silent in prayer. In the market—in prayer; at home—in prayer. Let prayer be like breath moving; like blood flowing through your body; like the blinking of your eyes—so natural! It becomes so natural. It must become so natural. It is meant to be so. The wonder is how everything became unnatural. Why we got cut off from Paramatma—that is the wonder. That some reconnect is no wonder—that was bound to be. That is our destiny.

A flower’s blooming is natural. If a bud never blooms though spring upon spring arrives—then a miracle is happening. But a flower blossoms—what miracle is there? The seed breaks and becomes a tree—what miracle is there? But if rains come and come, and the seed remains a seed—that is a miracle. Anything against nature is a miracle; in accord with it—what miracle! Attaining Paramatma is no miracle—the simplest happening—the most natural. Therefore Gulal has said—sahaj nama, sahaj gati, sahaj sadhana.

Gulal’s sutra:
Laagali neh hamari, piya mor.
Gulal says: My love has clung—to the One it ought to cling. To the One who is truly my own. Love, it seems, we all have—but it clings to the not-our-own, to the other. Then there is quarrel, then turmoil. Our love too is unnatural; our love is artificial. And when even love becomes artificial, what will remain in our life that is natural? When even love is artificial, then all else must be artificial.

You say you love your wife, your children, your parents, your brothers and sisters, your friends. Have you ever pondered what love means? Have you ever considered what you are willing to pay for love? Could you give your life for love? You will not. You will hedge. You will seek some way of escape.

So it happened in the life of Valya the Bhil, who later became Valmiki. He was a robber, a murderer. He seized Narada as he passed through the jungle. But to seize such a one is to fall into difficulty. There are people whom you may try to capture—yet you will find you are the one captured; they cannot be bound. Those who have found inner freedom—there is no way to imprison them from the outside.

Valya understood something of this—baffled and a little ashamed. He had seen only two kinds of people. Those who, when he attacked, would fight, ready to kill or be killed—he knew them well and knew how to handle them. And those who, when he attacked, would drop everything and run—he knew them too well; no need to handle. But this Narada seemed a third kind altogether. He neither fought nor fled. The vina kept sounding unbroken; the song flowed unbroken. Even when Valya caught hold of him, he continued to play. The same note. Not a tremor in the tone. The same inner state. The same drunken joy. Valya hesitated. Either the man is mad—or a siddha. Between madmen and the enlightened there is a faint similarity. The mad are so unconscious they do not know what is happening. The siddhas are so utterly conscious that nothing affects them.

Valya asked: What kind of man are you? Do you see this sword in my hand? I will cut off your head. And you keep singing! I am a robber, a killer! Narada said: Do what you wish to do. I am doing what I must do. Did I stop you? If you wish to cut off the head, cut it off. But before you do, answer me one question. Perhaps no one will ask it of you again. Why do you cut heads? Why do you rob? Naturally Valya said—as you would, as anyone would—that it is for my children, for my wife, for my old father, for my mother. I know no craft—only this strong body—so I rob. It is how I run my household—my profession, you could say. Narada said: Fine—carry on with your profession. One more question: for the suffering you must endure because of this profession, will your mother, your father, your children, your wife share in it or not?

Valya said: I am a simple man. I have never thought such difficult thoughts. I never asked my parents or my wife. But your point is right—I will go and ask. Only—do not cheat me by slipping away! Narada said: Then bind me to this tree so you may go at ease.

Valya tied Narada and went. He asked all. He asked his wife: These sinful acts—murder and robbery—when I rot in hell, will you share my suffering? She said: What have I to do with it? What does it matter to me what you do? You married me—your duty is to bring me bread. I want only bread—earn it by virtue or vice—that is your affair. You married me; will you feed me or not? I need clothes; I need a roof. I have never asked what you do. What you do is your business—and you alone will bear its fruits. I have no hand in it.

Valya was shocked.

He asked the children. They said: You did not ask us before giving us birth. You gave it—why bother us now! Since you have, then you must feed us. How you do it—what do we know? We are small. We never asked where you bring it from.

He asked his parents. They said: We are old, you are young—will you not feed your aged parents? You know best—do good or do evil. We do not say you should do evil. We neither agree nor disagree. We are neutral. But serving your aged parents is your duty. Do it as you can. If we are asked, we will say: We were neutral.

Valya returned—a different man. He freed Narada and said: Initiate me! Give me that secret by which I may become as you—so that whether joy or sorrow or death itself stands at the door, my song does not tremble and my heart does not panic. And you came at the right time to shock me awake. None of them loves me—for none is ready to share my suffering. All are companions of pleasure; none is ready to be companion in pain.

Thus Valya was transformed. Thus Valya became Valmiki.

All are Valyas.

All manner of looting goes on in this world. Some loot plainly, some crookedly; some with skill, some with great cunning. All kinds of looting. But do not call this love; it is not love. It is attachment, clinging, lust—but not love. Love is a very sacred state. Love is prayer, the fragrance of the soul. Love can be only with Paramatma. Below that, there is no love—below that, only the affairs of lower planes. You are excited by a woman’s body and call it love—‘I fell in love.’

Mulla Nasruddin loved a woman. Before marriage she asked: Mulla, one question—will you love me like this forever? Mulla thumped his chest: Forever! Not only this life—lives upon lives!

In love people say anything. What is said in love and in quarrel—do not give it much attention. In quarrel—do not take it too seriously; in love—do not either.

Mulla said: I will love you life after life. No woman exists for me but you. You are incomparable—the full moon of the fourteenth night. I have seen much beauty—but your form, your color, your radiance—God has fashioned you specially. Women are more earthy, less romantic. Their feet touch the ground; they do not fly so high in the sky. She said: All this is fine. I do not ask about next life. I ask this: when I grow old, when this body becomes worn and withered and bones start to show and the beauty drains from my face and my eyes grow dim—will you still love me? Mulla said: Yes, yes. But the yes now lacked force. A hollowness was felt. She said: Think and answer—will you love me then? Mulla said: Yes, I will. Only—one thing: you won’t start to look like your mother, will you?

Here big words are like waves upon water. They carry no weight. People speak because speaking must be done; and once speaking—why be miserly! In speaking they begin to exaggerate. Exaggeration pleases us. No one asks: how much truth is there?

Eyes filled with lust do not wish to see truth, cannot see it. They are stuck to what is utterly momentary—the body’s form, the body’s beauty—here now, gone now; today here, tomorrow who knows. And this you call love! Love can only be with the Eternal, for love itself is the name of eternity. Love is not in time; it is beyond time. What you call love is kama. It is not Rama. Until Rama arises within, there is no love.

Gulal speaks truly:
Laagali neh hamari, piya mor.
He says: My love clung to the real Beloved—the One who is mine, forever mine. Whom even if you wish you cannot make other. Here, all are others; wish as you may, none becomes yours. We leave nothing untried. But all devices are futile today or tomorrow. Today or tomorrow we see—the one we called our own was never ours. You had believed so. Some current of desire made you believe; the other too believed—some desire, some greed, some fear made acceptance happen. But relations here are of greed, of clinging, of fear. Little children ‘love’ you only out of fear—their life depends on you. They cannot survive without you. So they fear you.

Out of fear, children begin to ‘love’ their parents, then forget that the foundation was fear. Hence every child takes revenge upon the parents one day; and then you are puzzled. Fear demands revenge. A time comes when the children are strong and the parents weak. Once the parents were strong and the children weak. While the children were weak you bent them. When they grow strong, they will bend the parents.

This is politics—the politics of fear. You have frightened women, how deeply frightened them! Stolen their freedom at the root. Taken away their economic independence. You have made them entirely dependent—bread if you give, clothes if you give, a house if you give—the key to money in your hand. You took away their entry to wealth, you stopped their education, barred them from the scriptures. Naturally you enthroned yourselves as masters. And you taught women that the husband is God. In compulsion they had to agree. But it is only on the surface. When they sign letters ‘your servant’—they know well who is servant and who is master. And they prove it twenty-four hours a day. The brave who are brave outside—become mice when they enter home; tails tucked in. For so much oppression invites reaction.

Love does not arise out of fear. By fear you may force someone to concede your superiority—but you ignite the fire of revenge within. Women found their ways of revenge—they harry you in their style. When you sit to eat, they will harry you—won’t let you eat, such chatter they will raise! When you go to sleep they will harry you—won’t let you sleep, such chatter they will raise! Men go anywhere to escape their wives—some to Rotary, some to Lions Club.

A team went to the North Pole—very dangerous journey. Two became close friends. One asked: What brought you to such a life-threatening expedition? He said: Challenge, adventure. The impossible calls me. And you? He said: No such great reason. When we go back, come meet my wife—you will understand. If I had to go to the moon and stars, I would go—to be free of my wife! Even if I die, I will die smiling—freed at last!

And who is responsible?

Men are. Men suppress women; women suppress men. Children suppress parents; parents suppress children. Small children learn where your nerves are and when to press. They become politicians. They will be quiet, then when guests arrive, they will begin to make a racket, because they know—this is the moment—now they will frighten you, now you cannot beat them—what will the neighbors say, what will guests say! Now you will give a five-rupee note—go see a movie, go anywhere, but go! You were not willing to give five paise—now you hand over five rupees just to keep him out till the guests leave. You put off the child, then you will put off the guests. For there is no love for the guests either—only etiquette.

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend Chandulal came and stayed so long he would not leave. Mulla tried all ways—your wife must be waiting, your children must be sad. Chandulal said: I am beyond attachment—what wife, what child! Let us discuss high knowledge. Finding no way, Mulla sent a false telegram from his wife: Come at once, the child is fatally ill. Forced, Chandulal left. As the driver took him to the station he said: Drive fast, I may miss the train. The driver said: Be easy. When you left, Nasruddin told me: If he misses the train—your job is finished! We will get you on that train—if not at this station, then the next!

These flimsy relationships of life—what all lies hidden within—you call love! Do not drag so sacred a word as love into the mud. The saints have rescued it from the mud.

Laagali neh hamari, piya mor.
Love the Beloved. Gulal says: Let love cling to the One who is truly ours. With Him there is nothing to take or to give. With Him we have no bodily tie, no mental tie. To relate with Him, body and mind both must be left behind. Only a spiritual relatedness is possible—the purest flight—the highest soaring of the sky. That flight has given us Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Christs. That flight has given this earth its good fortune. Sometimes the earth has become a bride. Whenever a Buddha has walked here, the earth has been a bride. Because of us the earth is a widow; because of Buddhas she is sometimes adorned. Sometimes the Transcendent has descended here!

Chuni chuni kaliyan sej bichhawon, karon main mangalachar.
He says: Picking buds one by one I spread a couch for the Supreme Beloved. Which buds? These are symbols. For now I have only buds, not flowers. The flowers will bloom upon His advent—my buds will open in His welcome, in union with Him; in His embrace my buds will become blossoms. Till then—buds. He says it well. He does not say: I decorate the bed with flowers.

When you read the utterances of saints, attend to the fine textures.

Chuni chuni kaliyan sej bichhawon…
For now I have only buds. With those I prepare the couch. Come—and all will bloom; come—and flowers upon flowers will open; your coming is spring, your coming is the season of honey. Then the auspicious chanting will be. Then songs of benediction will rise in my heart. Then my life-breath will become a vessel of auspiciousness.

The life you are living has no harmony with such experiences.

In this ocean of the world’s delusion—
for whom now should I rise and surge?
The capital of patience scattered,
my dreams of happiness auctioned away,
the glass was sold, but the gem—
its hopes were undone.
In this upper glitter and dazzle—
for whom should I glow and refine now?
The market’s crowd has thinned—
I found no buyer for me;
unwanted I stood alone—
all labor wasted, vain.
The hour of adornment has passed—
for whom should I dress up now?
Morning went off with midday—
ahead I see an empty dusk;
like timid ghosts of tears they stand—
as if light had become barren.
In this hour of going, going—
for whom should I stay and wait now?

Your life is emptiness. Always it is the time of departure. There is nothing to stay for, nothing to rest upon. You have gathered pebbles.

Gulal says: A diamond-life was squandered. The life that could become a diamond—you threw away; and what have you brought home? Death will ask: what did you buy in the bazaar? You went to life’s marketplace, to life’s fair—what did you buy? You will have to stand with bowed head before death. Great shame will come. You will have no answer. Forget buying—you even lost what you had brought from birth. That was looted too. The bazaar is full of robbers—of many kinds. You gave away the diamond, and brought back stones—that is the bargain of our life. If this is your experience, perhaps the words of the saints will not appeal. But if you look at this experience with witnessing—what have I earned? Do not panic—we never ask such questions of ourselves, for they pierce and frighten the mind.

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. The ticket inspector came. The ticket could not be found! He opened all boxes, bedding, turned everything upside down, looked in pajama pockets, coat pockets, shirt pockets—the inspector himself took pity. He said: Surely you have the ticket. You work so hard—very well, I accept it. Don’t work more. You’ve filled the carriage with your things. Put them away.

Mulla said: Who is working to find the ticket! I must find out where I am going! Let the ticket go to hell—the big question is: where am I going?

A fellow traveler said: I have watched everything, but there is one pocket—the upper coat pocket—you have not checked.

Mulla said: Don’t even mention it! I will not look there—whatever happens! I need the hope that perhaps it is there. If I look there, even that hope is gone. For now I have one hope—if not elsewhere, then in that pocket. I cannot put my hand in there.

You keep certain questions of life untouched. You dare not put your hand there—lest that too be empty. Lest the ticket not be there either. Even this little hope is enough. Leave one or two places—so hope survives.

You do not raise the real questions. To avoid them, you raise innumerable trivial ones. Who created the world? As if you have anything to do with it. Whoever created it—what is done is done—now forgive! How does it matter to you? Even if you know—what will you do? File a case? Is there heaven or hell? You are here upon earth—ask about the ground beneath. But you wander far—why? To avoid coming close. You wander afar dreaming you are engaged in metaphysics. This is not metaphysics—this is hollow chatter.

What passes under the name of “scriptural debate” is hollow. Metaphysics means: the real, the actual—what transforms your life—what is relevant to the truth of your living.

Chuni chuni kaliyan sej bichhawon, karon main mangalachar.
He says: For now I have only buds. Not love’s flower—only the possibility of love. I spread that. Not prayer—only a half-baked form. I spread that. I do not yet know worship, nor archana. All buds. If they bloom, fragrance will arise. For now, even fragrance is unknown—buds are closed. And how will they bloom? The sun has not come. The Guest is not here—how will the buds open? So I wait, I call.

Pour the flame of awakening into this world of sleep.
When this breath—stretched like a lifeline—
is drawn within me,
and the dear of my heart is sprinkled
with the compassion of separation—
then come as a tear, Beloved,
in the tryst of love.
Pour the flame of awakening into this world of sleep.

I sense this sorrow
is eyeless, finds no path;
forgetting, alas, it returns
again and again to me.
Give them vision—or give me courage
as your gift.
Pour the flame of awakening into this world of sleep.

These deaf days and months
know a single motion;
a new dawn has one song—
the night knows one darkness.
Be absorbed in the raga,
resound in the twang of the vina.
Pour the flame of awakening into this world of sleep.

For now I sleep; if you will, you can pour into me the light of awakening. For now I am lost; if you will, you can take my hand and bring me to the path. This is the root sutra of bhakti—to leave oneself to the will of Paramatma. Do whatever He makes you do; go wherever He moves you. Bhakti is not resolve; it is surrender. From the devotee only this preparation is needed: I will not obstruct.

Chuni chuni kaliyan sej bichhawon…
I have spread the couch from my side—come when you will. I have readied the auspicious welcome—come when you will. The doors are left open. Let your sun rise, your breeze blow—there will be no hindrance from my side.

Ekou ghari piya nahin aile—
it becomes a reproach to me.
Not even for a single moment has the Beloved arrived. Not even a footfall is heard. Yet Gulal says something most delightful—he does not complain to the Beloved: Are you angry with me? Are you so hard? Is your heart of stone? Do you not hear my call? Are you deaf? No complaint. The reverse: It is I who must be reproached. Surely the fault is in me; surely some gap remains. The couch may not be worthy; the auspicious arches may be unfit; I am unworthy.

Mark this difference.

Ordinarily, if complaint arises in you—know this is not bhakti. If you feel: I pray so much, worship so much, call so much—why do you not hear? I earn so much merit, I donate, I build temples and mosques—why do you not listen? Are you there or not? If such complaint arises—know this is not bhakti. Complaint arises from ego. Where ego is, there is no way for the Divine to come. No complaint—the reverse: The shortcoming is mine. Blame yourself alone.

Atho jam rain-din johon—
I watch the road through all eight watches, day and night—
nek na hriday bisar—
not for a moment do I forget you. I call, I watch the path, and reproach myself—some lack remains, something yet to be ripened. Again I ready the couch, again I run to the door. If it is thus, the supreme hour must come. The instant your worthiness is full, Paramatma is present—without delay—not a moment late.

You have heard the proverb: “There is delay, but no darkness.” It is false. There is neither delay nor darkness. For if there is delay, there is already darkness. Delay implies: you were worthy but He did not come—what greater injustice! No—there is neither delay nor injustice. The instant you are ripe, His advent is simultaneous. Even “advent” is a manner of speaking—He was always already there. When you are ready, you see—recognition happens. He sits within you—from beginningless time. Become worthy—and the eyes open.

Teen lok ke sahib apne—
pharalihi mor lilar.
Gulal says: I kept reproaching myself—and one day the miraculous hour came—the blessed hour.

The Lord of the three worlds became mine—
my fortune ripened and bore fruit.

Sat-svarupa sada hi nirakhon—
santan pran-adhar.
Now I behold only His form everywhere. Wherever I look—only He. And now I know—because I have recognized Him—that wherever saints are, there He appears densest. He is the very support of their breath. As the sun’s rays through a prism become seven colors, an arc of rainbow—so Paramatma, passing through saints, becomes seven colors, seven ragas, a whole scale. Saints are His expression. Saints are His flute. Saints are His song. Saints are His mouth, His tongue. He speaks through saints. He has no other hands—saints’ hands are His hands. He has no eyes other than theirs—their eyes are His eyes.

Sat-svarupa sada hi nirakhon, santan pran-adhar.
Now I see Him everywhere—but in saints He is richly condensed—as the life of their life. Elsewhere a lamp here, a lamp there; in the saints it is Diwali—rows upon rows of lamps.

Kahai Gulal pavon bharipuran, maujai mauj hamar.
Gulal says: I have received in fullness—abundantly—
so much that I had never imagined. Unasked it came. My begging bowl grew small, the vessel of my heart grew small—it overflowed.

Mauj upon mauj—now it is joy upon joy, ecstasy upon ecstasy.

Today my prayer has become a fine rain—
of the monsoon’s gentle fall.
Half-open notes of the Beloved’s union
are dripping as drops;
why then do my eyes brim
to see these water-laden clouds?
In feelings that softly sob
dwells the thirsty chataka.
Today my prayer has become a fine rain.

Let not these dark lines of cloud
turn into lines of fate;
flowers have come even among these thorns—
but you have not come.
What I had awaited at dawn
has become the night.
Today my prayer has become a fine rain.

Across this direction and that
rainbowed messages of the Beloved—
amid the waves of wind
something said—or something-seeming-said—
with my breath alone you must know
what I have spoken.
Today my prayer has become a fine rain.

First the devotee weeps in separation—eyes become rain. And then he weeps in intoxication, in joy. Twice do tears come in a bhakta’s life—first in the pang of longing—then in the bliss of finding. They are two different tears: in the first there is pain and call; in the second—gratitude and grace.

Piya sang jurali sneh subhagi.
Gulal says: The auspicious union happened. My parting in the hair is filled—I became a bride. My betrothal is done.

Piya sang jurali sneh subhagi.
I am joined to the Beloved.

Purab preeti, satguru kripa ki—
rattat nam bairagi.
How did it happen? Through three things. First—love toward the Satguru; satsang. I began to gather where the intoxicated gathered, where the Name was discussed, where the rain of love for the Lord fell. Sometimes I understood, sometimes not. A little drizzle fell upon me too.

Science now confirms: sit among a group of drunkards and you begin to feel tipsy without drinking. Ten drunkards create a field, a wave—you begin to drift in it. Sit with five sorrowful men—your laughter vanishes. You were sad and met a few joyous people where fountains of laughter sprang—you forgot your sorrow and laughed. Later perhaps you feel a little guilty: What happened to me! I was sad, yet I laughed. Their laughter stirred you. We are all connected; we all vibrate in one another.

Satsang means: a place where people are drunk with God; where someone is utterly drowned in Him and those ready to drown gather near. Sit and rise there—soon you cannot be saved from the color—it will touch you. As if one passing through a garden—fragrance clings to the clothes.

Gulal says: First love for the Satguru. Then the second event—the Satguru’s grace. The Satguru is always pouring grace. How otherwise? What he has received must overflow. If you hold your bowl near, it fills. Like a river flowing—bend and make a cup of your hands—and water fills. Now you may quench your thirst. The river will not leap into your throat—you must make the cup. Love for the Satguru is that cupping of hands, that bending. Then the river will fill them. Then you can lift the water to your throat. Second event—the Satguru’s grace.

Third—rattat nam bairagi—by the remembrance of the Name, dispassion arose. Love from the disciple’s side; grace from the Master’s side; and where the two meet, Nama is born—smaran of the Lord arises. From that—viraga, dispassion—from the futile, dispassion; for the meaningful, raga—love; for truth, raga; from the untrue, viraga; for essence, raga; from the inessential, viraga.

And now—

Ath pahar chit lagai rahat hai—
now the mind is fixed all eight watches. Once it was difficult: chit chakmak lagat nahin—however I tried, the flint would not strike—always missing. Now, by itself, it remains fixed—natural.

Ath pahar chit lagai rahat hai—
dihal dan tan tyagi—
And now, whatever I had—I have given. I have kept back nothing. Whoever keeps back anything will miss. Paramatma must be given to without conditions. If you keep a condition—you have arranged your own defeat. With Him there is no bargaining. In love there is no bargain. Give—give whole. Gulal says: I gave all—and received All. What did I give? This body—death would have taken it anyway. Wealth—unreliable—robbers could steal, governments change, notes change, banks fail—anything. All that had no certainty—I gave. And what I received is eternal. None can steal it; no weapon can pierce it; no fire can burn it; death cannot destroy it. I received nectar. I gave—nothing; I received—everything.

Pulkipulki Prabhu son bhayo mela—
When it happened that I gave all—unconditionally—then, skipping and dancing, came union with the Lord. Now it cannot be without dance. Meera says: Tying ankle-bells, Meera danced.

Pulkipulki Prabhu son bhayo mela—
Prem jago hiye bhagi—
Now I know what love is. Now love has awakened in the heart. Buds became flowers, fragrance flew. Till now I had only heard the word—found in dictionaries, not in life. Now I know—love awakened in the heart.

Gagan mandal mein ras racho hai—
In the inner sky, the rasa-dance is on. Paramatma dances; with Him, we dance. As if He is Krishna playing the flute, and we, the gopis, dance.

Gagan mandal mein ras racho hai—
set singhasan raji—
The state of pure nirvikalpa Samadhi has come. The last station. Beyond it—nothing. Where the thousand-petaled lotus opens; where your life-consciousness attains its fullness.

Set singhasan raji—
That is the throne for which we have journeyed for births upon births. And we get entangled in little thrones. Because we seek the real throne, small thrones deceive us. We seek real wealth—so we get trapped in little hoards. We seek the supreme position—so we get stuck in small positions. These entanglements only tell one news—that our direction is wrong; otherwise our seeking is right. We are seeking indeed a position that cannot be snatched; wealth that cannot be lost; a throne from which there is no falling.

The thrones of here—you see. Until you reach them, sorrow; when you sit—great sorrow. For the moment you sit, the pulling begins. No one lets you sit, for they too want to sit there. Children are not the only children—old men are children. If a child sits on a chair, all children want to sit on the same chair.

Mulla Nasruddin walked home with two children tugging at his coat—making a racket. Someone asked: What’s the matter? Mulla said: The same that is everywhere. I have three bananas, two sons—and each wants two. Neither will accept one and a half. That is the world’s problem and mine. I took three hoping to keep one myself and give them one each. I am not counted. I have no seat in their arithmetic. They both want two. How solve it?

One President’s chair and a nation of hundreds of millions—and everyone wishes to be President. A birthright! Until you reach—sorrow; when you reach—greater sorrow; when you fall—still more. Sorrow upon sorrow. Yet our inner purpose is true—we want a seat from which we never fall; a place unmoving, unwavering—that seat is Samadhi. We called Samadhi the throne.

Kah Gulal ghar mein ghar payo—
thakit bhayo man paji.
Gulal says: The wonder is—at home I found the Home. Where all did this wretched mind drive me! It exhausted itself and exhausted me—made me run here, there—deluded me. And what I sought—I found at home.

Kah Gulal ghar mein ghar payo—
thakit bhayo man paji.
Now I am freed of this wretched mind. Now I search nowhere else—why would I? He is found within. The One you seek dwells in the seeker.

Soi din lekhe, ja din sant milahin.
Count only those days as lived that are spent with saints. Count those hours as life which pass in the company of the awakened—the rest is waste, debris.

One morning, King Bimbisara came to Buddha. As he sat, an old bhikshu arrived, bowed, and sought permission to go on pilgrimage: Any message? I may return in six or eight months. Buddha asked: How old are you? He must have been seventy or seventy-five. But he said: Four. Bimbisara was startled. To say sixty would be generous—but four! He held himself, but curiosity pricked. He said: Forgive me—this is not my business—but if I do not ask, it will nag me at home. And the Buddha listened and said nothing. Perhaps I heard wrong—may I ask again? The old man said: I am four.

Buddha laughed: You do not know how our monks count age. We count from the day of sannyas. The earlier years were spent in dreams, in sleep—what counting is that! Count from the day of renunciation.

Gulal is right:
Soi din lekhe, ja din sant milahin.
From the day you find the Satguru—begin the count. That is your true birth. That day you become twice-born. That day you become Brahmin. All are born as shudra—remember—no one is born into four varnas—all are born into one: shudra. When Satguru is found, a new birth happens. The shudra is erased—you become Brahmin. A Brahmin is one who has set out in search of Brahman—who has turned his face toward the Absolute—who has turned his back upon the futile bustle of the world.

Sant ke charan-kamal ki mahima—
more boote barani na jahin.
Gulal says: I am a simple villager—I cannot describe the glory that unfolds at the feet of a saint. Only this can I say—

Jal tarang jal hi ten upajain—
phir jal mahi samahin.
At the feet of the saint I experienced—

Waves arise from water—and dissolve back into water.

Hari mein sadh, sadh mein Hari hain—
sadh se antar nahin.
The saint is in Hari, Hari is in the saint—no difference. The day you meet one in whom you can see God—know that satsang has begun; something of worth has descended; dawn is near.

Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—
sadh sang pichhe lage jahin.
Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are not to be counted before a Satguru. Why? Because even they are entangled in maya. Read the Puranas—you will be shocked—their state sometimes is worse than yours: jealousy, quarrel, politics, trickery, passions. Your gods are your own fictions—old-style novelistic characters. The Satguru’s glory is of another order. When Buddha attained enlightenment, Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh came to touch his feet—as they should. For they are like you—a little more powerful perhaps—but with the same desires. Thus Gulal is right:

Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—
sadh sang pichhe lage jahin.

Das Gulal sadh ki sangati—
neech param-pada pahin.
This servant Gulal says: Even the lowly, in the company of the saint, attain the supreme state. I said—all are born shudra. In the company of the sage, the Brahmin is born. Not by birth in a Brahmin house does one become Brahmin. Birth is shudra; Brahmin is born at the feet of the Satguru—in love for the Master and the Master’s grace between which the unprecedented happens: the shudra becomes Brahmin; the bud blossoms into a flower; the supreme throne—never to be lost—is attained. Then it is a rain of immortality—pearls shower from all directions.

Enough for today.